Tom's clutches were again at his throat. “Another lie,” he exclaimed, “and you'r a gone man. Do what I bid you.”
Skinadre appeared, in point of fact, unable to do so, and Dalton seeing this, weighed the unhappy young woman a stone of oatmeal, which, on finding it too heavy for her feeble strength, he was about to take up himself when he put his hands to his temples, then staggered and fell.
They immediately gathered about him to ascertain the cause of this sudden attack, when it appeared that he had become insensible. His brow was now pale and cold as marble, and a slight dew lay upon his broad forehead; his shirt was open, and exposed to view a neck and breast, which, although sadly wasted, were of surpassing whiteness and great manly beauty.
Margaret, on seeing him fall, instantly placed her baby in the hands of another woman, and flying to him, raised his head and laid it upon her bosom; whilst the miser, who had now recovered, shook his head, lifted his hands, and looked as if he felt that his house was undergoing pollution. In the meantime, the young woman bent her mouth down to his ear, and said, in tones that were wild and hollow, and that had more of despair than even of sorrow in them—
“Tom, oh, Tom, are you gone?—hear me!”
But he replied not to her. “Ah! there was a day,” she added, looking with a mournful smile around, “when he loved to listen to my voice; but that day has passed forever.”
He opened his eyes as she spoke; hers were fixed upon him. He felt a few warm tears upon his face, and she exclaimed in a low voice, not designed for other ears—
“I forgive you all, Tom, dear—I forgive you all!”
He looked at her, and starting to his feet, exclaimed—
“Margaret, my own Margaret, hear me! She is dyin',” he shouted, in a hoarse and excited voice—“she is dyin' with want. I see it all. She's dead!”